


Scenic (One Shot)

by heyjayyay



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: 5h, Camren - Freeform, F/F, scenic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjayyay/pseuds/heyjayyay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a year for them to realize it, but with each change of the season, her love grows.</p><p>Camren AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenic (One Shot)

**Author's Note:**

> Stay in touch!  
> Amazon Author: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07BB6DFXN  
> Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17449889.Jessica_Yeh  
> Facebook: facebook.com/JessicaYehWrites/  
> 

**Scenic (One Shot)**

You’ve always found it easy to get lost in your surroundings, in the landscape with some many different aspects and colors. _The life of an artist._

**_Fall_ **

You remember how things changed, how the clear autumn sky seemed so serene. Only when you look closely, can you see the wisps of white across the blanket of soft blue. It’s as if the artist had lazily swept her brush across a canvas before realizing it was not what she expected, hesitating before placing the brush aside. Little by little, you notice the tiniest of details begin to look just the slightest bit different. The tops of the trees have begun their metamorphosis. Red blending to orange. Orange smeared into yellow. Yellow clashing against the bright green remains of summer.

You rinse your brush clean as you gaze out the window observing the landscape in front of you. It’s different. Everything is. The brush. The view. Your own canvas. The trees in your painting are just a little bit smaller, browner, duller than the ones outside. It’s not perfect. It’s not the same. Nothing is.

She takes you camping. You’ve never been an outdoor person, but somehow she convinces you to go. You’re pretty sure your tipping point was when she looked into your eyes with her galaxy green ones. Your ship sank right there and then. They’ve always been your greatest weakness.

You don’t bother trying to catch up to her as you puff along a good 10 feet behind. The crunching of leaves echo around you as if you were the only two beings left in the world.

You wouldn’t mind if that were the case.

She turns around to check on you, to make sure you’re alright, still willing to follow her. It’s silly. She should know by now. You’d follow her to the end of time. You watch as the corners of her mouth turn the slightest bit upward. She smiles at you. Almost.

You spend the majority of the trip hiding in your little tent, sketchbook in your lap, an array of colored pencils scattered around you. You watch her in her own sleeping bag, eyes closed, breathing steadily.

Nothing has ever looked so picturesque.

**_Winter_ **

The trees are bare, encased in a fragile glass that could shatter even the smallest amount of force. You are thankful for the warm fire to your right, its flames casting comforting shadows as they dance across the walls.

The hair on your brush is harsh, picking up the thick oil paint before spreading it across your palette.

The wind picks up, swirling the white powder on the ground, joining the ball. The gust of snow continues to glide about, extending its hand, inviting you to dance. And you do, for a bit. Your wrists twist freely as you feel the wood of the brush against your fingertips. The cool colors dance across your canvas as you press down in smooth, patient strokes.

It’s cold. Not just from the storm. She stands at your door, trembling. The paintbrush in your hand crashes to the floor, its sound magnified by a hundred. You quickly come to your senses and pull her inside. There are crystals in her eyes.

You strip her of the cold that surrounds her, guiding her under the covers. You offer her something to relieve her of the bareness. She refuses and chooses to remain naked. The encasement has already been shattered. You hold her as she shudders, stroking her hair in long, tender motions. She continues to cry herself to sleep.

The only colors on your canvas are dull; greys, blues, whites, browns. It seems empty and incomplete. She looks damaged. Broken.

But never in your life have you seen something look so magnificent.

**_Spring_ **

You fix her with the help of the seasons. The return of warm weather carries a feeling of hope with a gentle breeze that floats through your window.

The pastel colors intermingle harmoniously. The watercolors are lighter, lifting the weight that the harsh winter had restrained you with. It’s easier to incorporate colors into softer work.

You glance over at the figure lounging on the couch reading, the sides of the pages bouncing lightly as the warm air sweeps under them. She lays a hand on them, attempting to settle their hovering, only to have them spring back to life as she turns the page. She inhales slowly, tilting her head back as her eyes flutter shut.

You place your brush in the cup, wiping your hands on the towel that rests on the stool next to you. She doesn’t look up. You make your way to her side, your feet padding quietly, careful not to disturb her meditative state.

Before you can make it half way across the room, she stirs, motioning for you to join her, setting the literature on the coffee table.

She’s a flower, a garden you worked hard, dedicated yourself to filling with life. Color floods her canvas, rosy replaces pale. Dull pink flushes to a lively red. Grey eyes excavate jade. Your fingertips brush small circles lazily along the small of her back.

Watching her come undone was like finally completing a masterpiece.

Nothing has ever looked so beautiful.

**_Summer_ **

You stand by the window as you always have, an oversized button up shirt tossed lazily over your shoulders a few minutes ago. You didn’t bother putting pants on. Your boy shorts suit your mood. There’s a faint smell of coffee that lingers in the air.

You are lost in your own world. Your brush, your canvas, and you. You feel the warm summer breeze wrap her arms around your waist.

She spins you around, hands returning to their place on your sides. It’s as if the sun suddenly decided to beat down on you. You can feel the heat rushing through your veins. But you aren’t facing the light necessarily. You’ve got your own source of light, a different one. It’s not a white light, but a green one. They’re still your greatest weakness. You don’t think they ever won’t be.

She tucks a stray hair behind your ear, never breaking eye contact. You feel like you’ve seen heaven. She leans in, your lips are met with something gentle, soft. When you finally pull apart, you observe the wrinkles by her eyes, the freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips, the definition of her cheekbones.

Nothing has ever looked so heavenly.

She is scenic.

**A/N: I’m sorry for not updating Bows and Beanies. It’s taking longer than I thought. I hope you enjoyed it. I know it’s awfully metaphoric compared to B &B. I just wanted to try something different. -J**

**Author's Note:**

> Stay in touch!  
> Amazon Author: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07BB6DFXN  
> Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17449889.Jessica_Yeh  
> Facebook: facebook.com/JessicaYehWrites/  
> 


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